


Solitude

by Ritequette



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grimdark, M/M, There is hurt but there is no comfort, This is the darkest fic I've written so far, You've been warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritequette/pseuds/Ritequette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cloudless, sunny day like any other...</p>
<p>Allen Walker wakes up to a world he doesn't understand.</p>
<p>Kanda Yuu walks into the aftermath of a devastating attack on the Order.</p>
<p>And halfway around the world, a former Crow sets into action a plan that could change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mega-dark fic. I'm warning you all in advance.

“Laugh, and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone;”

 

— From _Solitude_ by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

 

 

Awareness is a fickle creature. It ebbs and flows with sleep and hunger. It fails you at the worst of times. It drags you far beyond the world, and when it finally lets you go, lets you float back to the surface of reality, you feel like the world has moved on without you. That you no longer have a place in space and time. That everyone walks ahead of you and no one stayed behind to wait for your return. That you are alone. For now. And forever. 

Yes, awareness is the most fickle creature of all.

That is the first thing Allen thinks when he wakes up.

Eyelids heavier than lead struggle to rise, and when they do, the bright sunlight nearly burns his corneas. Allen has to squint, gaze directed at the clear blue sky, and blink, blink, blink the sensitivity away. His vision blurs in and out of focus for a moment, in time with each of his too quick breaths, but when it stabilizes, finally, and stops aching from light, he gets a good look at the place he’s _somehow_ to come to rest in.

A grassy field dotted with red and violet flowers. A few large trees scattered about, with some woods off in the distance. There’s not a building in sight—no train tracks either—no place that he could have come _from_ to wind up here on the ground. And he’s not in pain, that he can tell—he’s a bit numb, to be honest—which means it’s pretty unlikely he fell from the sky after being tossed a quarter mile by some akuma. 

So how the heck did get here? And where is here exactly?

Allen checks his fingers and toes, arms and legs, and finds that everything moves like he expected. Whatever happened to him didn’t involve bodily injury, at least not the kind he’s become used to on his Order missions. Grunting, a bit dizzy, he props himself up into a sitting position and takes another look around. But despite his view being cleared from the tall grass, he again sees nothing out of the ordinary. He’s really just lying in a field, like he took a long walk and fell asleep by accident on a nice, warm afternoon.

That’s…odd, to say the least.

Allen raises his left hand scratches his chin, sucking in a confused breath, and—he stops cold and glances down at his hand. And stares. And stares. And stares some more. Because his brain can’t comprehend what he’s seeing.

He flexes his fingers, and they move like his own. He presses his palm to the warm ground, and the skin prickles at the touch of a coarse weed. He watches as an ant crawls across the back of his fingers, and he can feel, almost hypersensitive, each tiny step. It _is_ his arm. It feels. It works.

But the arm that Allen is staring at is…normal. The Innocence that has been embedded in his arm, that has _been_ his left arm for so many years, is _gone._ And Allen can’t, for the life of himself, makes sense of it. A sense of dread drops into his stomach like a sack of bricks, and the splash of fear is followed by overwhelming nausea.

Allen looks left, right, back, forward, up down—but he doesn’t see or sense Crown Clown anywhere nearby. So it didn’t separate from him of its own accord. And it couldn’t have been destroyed, like in China with Tyki Mikk, because he still _has_ an arm. So where…where did Crown Clown _go_? 

_Where the hell am I? What the hell is going on?_

The sun on Allen’s skin suddenly feels too hot, even though his blood is freezing solid.

He rolls over onto his knees and then rises, his legs oddly weak and shaky, as if he hasn’t used them in a very long time. Which is strange. Because the last time he checked, wasn’t he on the run? He was, right? On the run from the Order. From the Noah. From a monster inside his own head. From the world itself and the world within.

Quivering from head to toe, Allen looks himself over—and finds other things that make no sense.

He’s wearing nothing but a pair of pale blue cotton pants and a matching shirt, something you’d see in a hospital, or the Order’s infirmary. He doesn’t have any shoes. Or a coat. Or, he can feel, with a flush creeping up his checks, any undergarments.

And if that wasn’t bizarre enough—his _hair_. Allen spots a thick lock of white hair hanging at his _waist_ , and when he reaches up and tugs on it, fully expecting it to come free, like a wig piece, he finds it securely attached to his scalp. And sure, his hair _had_ grown longer during his time on the run, but it was at his shoulders last time he checked. How the hell had it gotten so…?

The last time he checked.

God, when _was_ that?

The fear bubbles up in Allen’s throat, bile threatening to spill out of his mouth, and he gags. Hands on his knees, he breathes as deeply and slowly as he can, trying to stop himself from falling into a panic attack. It hardly works.

A half dozen terrible thoughts zip through his head. Had he lost to the 14th? Had the Noah been using his body for months, _years,_ and had only just let him go, the Holy War all said and done, for better or worse? Had Allen been deposited here like garbage, a pawn with no further use? Had an Ark Gate dropped him and left to die in the middle of nowhere, too far from civilization to reach it before starvation? Had—?

Allen finally vomits. All over those pretty red and violet flowers.

He finds, however, that there’s almost nothing in his stomach to spill. As if he hasn’t eaten in a while—just like he hasn’t apparently has _stood_ in a while. Acid splashes the pretty petals, staining them off color, and Allen has to stumble backward to stop himself from gagging more. He ends up tripping on the root of a nearby try and crumples to the ground, curling up on impact, the panic taking over. 

Allen doesn’t know how much time passes before he regains control of himself. Just like he doesn’t know how much time has passed since he was last in control of his body.

He can’t come to any other conclusion. Nothing else makes sense. He _must_ have lost to the 14 th.

He must have failed.

The Noah in his soul could have killed the Earl, taken over the Noah, murdered the entire Order, and destroyed the Heart—the Days of Darkness could be scheduled in for first thing tomorrow morning. And Allen, trapped in the darkness of his soul, left to float away for eternity, could have been none the wiser to any of it.

Shaking uncontrollably, Allen forces himself to get up again. He glances at the sky and finds the sun is starting to dip low toward the trees. If there are any answers to be had, about _any_ of this insanity, he’ll have to first find civilization. Assuming it hasn’t been obliterated.

Allen steels himself, pretending that, beyond the distant woods, there’s an akuma skirmish waiting to happen. Something he’s handle a hundred times before. Something he can conquer with ease. Yes, what lies beyond the grassy field is an enemy Allen can triumph over. Is a battle he can walk away from with nary a scratch. Is a journey he can end with a smile on his face and hope in his heart. It is. 

_It has to be._

Allen closes his eyes and whispers the barest prayer to whatever God might be listening.

Then he forces himself to his feet and starts walking forward.

 

***

 

“Kanda, can you hear me? Am I coming through clearly?”

“I’ve answered you twice now, Komui. The problem’s on _this_ end. The storm—” 

“Never mind that. You’re being reassigned immediately.”

“What?” 

“There’s been…an incident.”

“Tch. What now?”

“We need you to go the new American Branch. In New York state.”

“Are you fucking serious? That’s hundreds of miles away. I can’t—” 

“It’s been destroyed, Kanda.”

“…What?”

“The entire American Branch has been destroyed. And as far as we know, everyone is dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

They’d hidden it in the Adirondacks—the new American Branch. It had been carved, meticulously, deep in a mountainside, somehow without disturbing the surrounding forests. From above and below, it had been rendered invisible, the entrance obscured by evergreen trees and thick fogs rolling over the slopes. Central, who’d been in charge of the new construction, had chosen the location—remote, hard to find, and even harder to access. Qualities that all the other branches possess, and that the old American Branch _had_ possessed until the Earl blew it up. (As if any qualities could possibly protect it from the Noah.)

Kanda had never asked how they built the damn thing, or how long it took. Because he really didn’t—and still _doesn’t_ —care. The only thing that matters to him is that the branch is accessible when he needs it on a mission, when he’s out of supplies, when he requires medical attention (because he does sometimes, _now_ ), etc. Since they’ve lost the power to open new Ark Gates, missions are, once again, long and tedious. And the longer and more tedious they are, the more likely it is that Kanda will find himself in need of a short stay at the closest regional branch.

Unless you get assigned to a place where a Gate already exists and can return to Headquarters as you please. But Kanda _never_ gets assigned to those places. Because, according to Komui, _Generals don’t need that extra layer of protection, Kanda_.

And that’s how Kanda, originally assigned to find multiple Innocence shards stashed away in the American south, a cluster of ghost towns hidden away at the ends of long-forgotten roads, ends up at the base of a mountain in New York state, gazing up through the misty trees that hide the branch from prying eyes. He’s been here a handful of times now, stayed in some cushy guest quarters. But his stops have been short, two or three days max, and he’s never explored the place to any extent. Hell, he’s hardly spoken to anyone here, other than the branch head and a few scientists brave enough to ask about Mugen’s crystal form. 

Yet somehow, some way, it’s become his job to venture into the mountainside and confirm a mass slaughter has taken place. As if he’ll be able to identify anyone by name.

Kanda inhales deeply, fresh pine on the cool air, mixed with the faintest scent of something…he cuts that thought short. The skin on his neck prickles underneath the collar of his General’s coat, a chill building at the base of his spine. A shudder working through his bones. He recognizes the sensation, belatedly, as he gazes up the mountainside: 

Fear.

Not from the cold. No. No.

Not from the stillness of the morning air, winged night predators curling up for sleep. No. No.

Not from the distant storm he can already smell, so far off there’s not yet a cloud in the sky. No. No. 

Fear—from the _silence_.

There is no sound for miles, except the hush of Kanda’s breathing. It’s like every animal in the forest has hidden itself away in terror, too scared to even venture out to greet the morning. The eeriness of the atmosphere works its way through Kanda’s skin, and the chill finally fires, crawling up his spine. He exhales, and his mere breath echoes faintly through the trees.

Dead silence.

Kanda was skeptical, at first, when Komui told him the only reason they had to believe the branch had been attacked was a conference call cut short, dropped to static. A lack of communication. Kanda had bitched at Komui’s paranoia—there hasn’t been a branch invasion since the _last_ American Branch was destroyed, and the Noah have no reason to attack the new one. There’s nothing _here_ yet. It’s practically empty, most of the labs still being set up. No Innocence stored anywhere.

Yes, Kanda had complained all the way up here, the entire train ride, figuring the whole situation would boil down to some power failure. A startup experiment gone wrong. A malfunction in the generator. Something stupid. A waste of time. There’d been so many wastes of his time over the past two years. But…

But now…Kanda takes another breath of the tepid air, tinged with the faintest scent of copper. And he knows Komui was _not_ being paranoid. Something is horribly wrong. Another mass funeral wrong. Another memorial wrong. Another day of mourning wrong, sobs in every hallway wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Kanda turns toward the almost invisible path trodden into the earth leading up the mountainside. It’s marked only with nails painted blue, pinned into the bark of every third or fourth tree. Gripping the sheath of Mugen tightly, Kanda forces himself to break the silence, his heavy boot steps like a train’s horn screeching through the mountain range. One step. Two. A dozen. A hundred. A thousand. It takes him fifteen minutes total to trek up the trail and reach the door disguised with a blanket covered in leaves and pine needles.

He sweeps the blanket aside, revealing the metal door underneath. There’s a safe-like dial on one side, a large handle on the other. He pulls the access code out of his memory, a random sixteen-digit number, and bends down to start twisting the dial.

As he enters the numbers one by one, he glances around the forest again. But still, nothing moves except him. Every living creature has been driven out of the area by _whatever_ the fuck happened here the other day. And even though it’s been hours and hours now, the animals still haven’t returned. Not even the insects. Not even the flies drawn to the stench of old blood.

Something scared them all away.

Something Kanda is about to witness.

Briefly, he tracks his gaze higher up the mountainside, to the approximate location of the branch’s main door, a much larger entrance cut vertically into the rock. It might be his eyes playing tricks on him, but Kanda could swear, that, even through hundreds of trees, dozens of shadows, and the lingering mist—it almost looks like the ten-ton main door is ajar. Not ajar as in opened. Ajar as in _bent_. As if God’s own hand reached down and tried to rip it off its track.

Kanda grips Mugen a little bit tighter.

The side door clicks as the locks disengage, and Kanda pulls his gaze from the glint of ruined metal in the distance to the entrance to Hell that sits before him. Hesitant, he grips the handle, wondering whether he should turn it or not. If some never-before-seen akuma, powerful beyond belief, is lying in wait inside, Kanda could be setting himself up for his own funeral. More than one exorcist has made the same mistake, these past couple years. And he remembers, in stark detail, all of their funerals. Closed caskets. Black shrouds.

Kanda has to be cautious now, to keep on living, to keep his promise to keep on living. He’s not immortal anymore. Not by a long shot.

But at the same time, there could be survivors in the branch. Injured. Dying. It’s up to Kanda, as a General, to assess the situation and make the important calls in a dangerous combat situation. That’s what Komui told him on the train ride.

If the threat is over and there are survivors, it’s Kanda’s responsibility to call in support. If the threat is not over and there are survivors, it’s Kanda’s job to end the threat and call in support. If the threat is not over and there are no survivors, it’s Kanda’s job to end the threat and report his findings to Komui, to Central, to whoever’s interested or obligated to hear about more death and carnage.

Regardless of the situation, the responsibility rests on Kanda’s shoulders now. _You agreed to this, you idiot,_ he reminds himself, _when you gave in to Tiedoll’s demands._ God, how Kanda would love to go back and scream at himself, standing in that damn alley, mind muddled by that fucking Innocence monster. What a boneheaded thing he’d done. As stupid as the beansprout had been.

The beansprout. _Allen Walker._

Kanda remembers that funeral, too.

Kanda grips the door handle tightly and tugs it down, the latches popping open with a rumble, announcing his presence to anything beyond. He heaves the door open, swings it around one-eighty, and it thuds loudly, the sound echoing outward, against the damp forest floor. As the reverberations fade into the distance, Kanda steps up to the threshold and peers into the new American Branch.

Beyond the service door, lit with red emergency lights, is a narrow hallway. Beyond the narrow hallway, lit with nothing but shadows, is a wider main corridor. Beyond the corridor are hundreds of rooms of all sizes and shapes, made for all purposes. And in all of these places, every single one—there is no life at all.

Kanda gazes into the abyss.

And the abyss gazes also.

Kanda staggers back and vomits on the forest floor. Again and again until he’s on his knees.

Because in every nook, every corner, splayed across every tile, as far as the blinking red lights will show, as far as he can see—the American Branch is nothing but a box of corpses. Eviscerated. Torn apart. Ripped limb from limb. Organs strewn across the floor like children’s discarded toys. Blood on the ceilings, on the tiles, painted red across the walls. There’s not a single place left untouched by rot and ruin. Everything is decorated with the corpses of the slain.

Kanda doesn’t even need to go inside to know the truth.

Komui was right, yet again.

The American Branch has been destroyed. And everyone is dead.

 

***

 

“There’s been an attack. They’re being abnormally tight-lipped about it, which suggests it’s particularly devastating. I suspect the Pope will call a meeting within the week—the Vatican will be in disarray. This could be your chance to slip inside and get what you need.”

“I’ll need the details.”

“I’ll get them to you as soon as they come.”

“Thank you. For everything, you know? You’re taking a huge risk, communicating with me on enemy soil. I owe you much.”

“Nonsense. I have no love for the Church, or their new Central. My loyalty was with Lvellie, same as yours, Inspector.”

“You don’t need to be so formal with me, not after all you’ve done. Please, call me Link.”

“As you wish…Link. I’ll be in touch in forty-eight hours. On the Berlin line.”

“Excellent. I’ll be waiting.”


End file.
